my fault. I should have put my foot down and insisted we
go home. But it was hard for me to deny Caroline anything.
I loved her very much.”
“You weren’t to know there was danger about, sir,”
Witherspoon said kindly.
Muran looked up. “Wait. Now that I’ve thought about it,
there is someone who was very angry at Caroline.”
“And who would that be, sir?” Barnes asked, relieved
that they might actually be making progress.
“I’m not saying a word against my wife,” he replied.
“But Caroline could be very hard when she considered a
principle was at stake.”
“Meaning what, sir?” Witherspoon prompted.
“Meaning she sacked her factory manager just a few days
before she was murdered. His name is Roderick Sutter. Yee
Gods, that’s right. I’d quite forgotten. Caroline had sacked
the fellow, and as I recall, he’d not taken it very well at all.”
“Russell Merriman must have plenty of influence to get the
police to have another look,” Blimpey Groggins said to
Smythe. “Looks like we caught us a bit of luck on that one.”
“What do you know about him?” Smythe asked. He
took a quick sip of his beer and tried not to make a face. It
was a bit early in the day for him, but after their meeting
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125
this morning, it had become important they learn what
they could about Merriman. The Dirty Duck was closed,
but as Blimpey was probably the owner of the establishment, they were having a quick pint anyway.
“Don’t you worry, old mate, I’ve already got my sources
on it,” Blimpey replied. “What I know so far is that he’s a
bit of a ne’er-do-well, bit of a drinker and a gambler. He’s
not much good at holdin’ the liquor or handlin’ the cards.”
“We know that much,” Smythe retorted. “What we need
to know now is whether or not he might have ’ad anything
to do with his sister’s murder.”
“You’re wantin’ to know if he was in London at the time
of the murder and livin’ under another identity,” Blimpey
said shrewdly. “He wasn’t.”
“You know that for a fact?”
“If he’d been ’ere, he’d have let Tommy Odell hang, and
as ’e’s the one stirring it up at the Home Office, I think you
can safely say he’d nothin’ to do with it.”
“That’s what we thought as well.” Smythe sighed, remembering the rather heated discussion they’d had on the subject at breakfast. “But it doesn’t hurt to make sure about
the fellow. There’s a chance that even if he didn’t do it, he
might have put one of his mates up to doin’ the deed for
him.”
Blimpey shook his head. “I’m one step ahead of ya. Russell Merriman didn’t have the sort of mates that’d do murder for him. He and his kind are usually gutless, upper-class toffs that don’t get their hands dirty. Besides, ever since I
come back to London and found out Tommy was in the
nick, I’ve had my sources out gatherin’ information, and
I’ve not heard any hints that Merriman was back in England
or that he had anything to do with his sister’s death. By all
accounts, the two of ’em were right fond of each other.”
“Exceptin’ for the fact that he was a drunk,” Smythe retorted.
“So what?” Blimpey shrugged. “Just because someone
drinks don’t mean their kin stops carin’ about ’em.”
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Emily Brightwell
“Have you found out anything else that might be useful?” Smythe looked down at his beer glass, a bit embarrassed to be asking this kind of question. But though it pleased his vanity to tell himself he’d do all his own investigating from now on, the truth was, Blimpey did have incredibly good sources of information and a man’s life was at stake.
“Well, I’m a bit annoyed that I didn’t catch this earlier,
but about a week before she was killed, Mrs. Muran sacked
her factory manager. Seems he’d been helpin’ himself to
her money. My sources tell me she was tryin’ to decide
whether or not to set the law on the man.”
“I knew she’d sacked her manager,” Smythe said. “But I
haven’t had time to find out his name yet.”
“His name is Roderick Sutter. He lives at forty-two
Landry Place in Fulham.”
“What do you think, sir?” Barnes asked as they climbed into
a hansom.
Witherspoon sighed. “I think we’re in a bit of a mess,” he
said, grabbing the handhold as the cab lurched forward,
“and I’m not in the least sure what to do about it. I suppose
we’d best just carry on as if the trial hadn’t already taken
place and the verdict been given. But honestly, it does make
getting information out of people a bit difficult. Did we get
some police constables set up to do a round of the neighborhood?”
They’d asked Chief Inspector Barrows for a few men to
go around to Barrick Street and see if they could find any
witnesses. After reading the file, even Barrows had admitted
the original investigation had been woefully incompetent.
“I’ve got several lads assigned to it, sir,” Barnes replied.
“But as you said earlier, the trail’s gone cold and those streets
are pretty empty once the businesses close. But we’ll see if
we can find something. What do you think we’ll learn by
speaking to Mrs. Muran’s solicitor?” They were headed for
the law offices of Brandon and Wells, just off Russell Square.
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127
“I’m not sure,” Witherspoon said, sighing again. “But
maybe if we learn a bit more about the lady, we’ll come up
with something. Honestly, I was hoping Mr. Muran might
have been a bit more helpful. But apparently, he can’t remember anything.”
“I expect getting coshed on the head could do that. But
I still think it’s odd, sir. Why wasn’t he killed as well as Mrs.
Muran?” Barnes was very mistrustful of situations that didn’t
make sense, and this murder didn’t make sense at all. Even
the information he’d gotten from Mrs. Jeffries in their meeting this morning wasn’t particularly helpful. The inspector’s household had learned a good number of facts, but none of them were shedding much light on the identity of
the killer. Not yet anyway.
“Perhaps whoever did the killing only wanted her
dead.” Witherspoon cocked his head to one side as another
idea popped into his mind. “Gracious, that’s what we’ve
got to do. That’s the answer.” His housekeeper was right,
sometimes it paid to listen to his “inner voice.”
Over breakfast this morning, she’d said, “You’ve simply
got to trust yourself, sir. Listen to your instincts. That inner
voice of yours hasn’t failed you yet.”
“What’s the answer, sir?” Barnes stared at him curiously.
“Why, it’s as plain as the nose on your face, Constable,”
Witherspoon said happily. “We’ve simply got to find the
reason that someone would want her dead while having an
equally compelling reason to keep him alive.”
Barnes blink
ed in surprise, caught himself, and said,
“You mean like someone thinking that he might be easier to
deal with than she was. You know, in a business sense, sir.
From what Mr. Merriman told us, his sister tended to be
more concerned with principles than profits when it came
to her business.”
Witherspoon stared at him. “I’m not certain I understand what you mean.”
“Uh . . .” Barnes struggled to think of the right way to say
it. “Like you pointed out, sir, the killer wanted only her dead.
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Emily Brightwell
She controlled the business, and maybe the killer thought
that with her gone, Mr. Muran, who isn’t a businessman at
all, would be easier to deal with.” He held his breath, hoping
he’d not gone too far. But he had to somehow introduce the
idea that Witherspoon should have a look at John Addison.
“That’s one possible motive,” Witherspoon agreed. “I’m
sure there are lots of others. After we see the solicitors, I
want to see Roderick Sutter. Frankly, I’m surprised that Inspector Nivens never even bothered to interview the man.”
“I’m not,” Barnes muttered.
Wiggins hovered behind a post box on the Fulham Road
watching as Constable Barnes and the inspector got into a
hansom cab. As soon as the cab moved off, he came out from
his hiding place and turned down Drayton Gardens. If he was
lucky, he might find someone who’d talk to him. He slowed
his pace and tried not to look directly at the Muran house.
Just then, a maid came up the ground floor steps and
onto the street. She had a shopping basket over her arm.
Wiggins recognized her immediately; it was the girl he’d
frightened. Without thinking, he moved to block her path,
whipped off his cap, and blurted the first words that came
into his head. “Excuse me, miss, but I’ve come to apologize.”
“Apologize for what?” She came to a full stop.
“For scaring you the other day,” he replied. “It’s made
me feel right terrible. I’ve come back here three times,
hoping to see you so I could say how sorry I was.”
She said nothing for a moment, and then she smiled
faintly. “You’ve tried to find me?”
“Just to say I was sorry, miss. It’s not nice to scare young
ladies.” He couldn’t quite recall what he’d said to her on their
first encounter, so he tried to avoid saying too much now.
She cast a quick look over her shoulder toward the house
and then looked back at Wiggins. “Did you ever find your
dog?”
He grinned. “Yes. He’d just run off ahead of me.”
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129
“Good,” she said, starting toward the Fulham Road. “I
like dogs.”
“May I walk with you, miss?” He put his cap on and hurried to catch up with her. “I’d be pleased to carry your shopping basket.”
“You can walk with me, but I’ll hold onto the basket
myself if you don’t mind.” She cast him a quick, sideways
glance.
She wasn’t a particularly pretty girl, but she wasn’t
homely, either. Her eyes and hair were brown and her complexion quite pretty. He wasn’t quite sure what approach to take. “Are you a housekeeper, miss? You’re awfully young
and pretty to be in such a position.”
She laughed in delight. “No, I’m just a housemaid. But
Mrs. Turner hasn’t the faintest idea of how a proper household should be run, so she sends me off to do the shopping.”
“Is that your mistress, then?” he asked. They were nearing the Fulham Road and he wanted to make sure they were deeply engrossed in conversation before she went into the
shops. “Mrs. Turner?”
The girl made a face. “No, my mistress passed away recently. Mrs. Turner and her daughter are simply family cousins. Poor relations, if you know what I mean. But
they’ve barged in to try and take over everything. Not that
it matters to me; I’m looking for a new position. I shan’t be
staying there much longer.”
“You’re looking for a new place, then?” He grinned
broadly. “Perhaps I can be of ’elp. I know several households that might be needing more staff.” This wasn’t a lie, either. Mrs. Jeffries had commented that two of their neighbors were looking for servants.
“Really?” She looked at him, her expression hopeful.
“I’ve got recommendations.”
“That’d be good,” he replied.
“And I can get another from our current housekeeper.
She took ill right after the mistress died, but I know her address and can easily get a letter from her.”
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Emily Brightwell
Wiggins felt a bit uncomfortable. But he ruthlessly
pushed the feeling to one side. He would do his best to help
the girl secure another job, but in the meantime, he’d find
out what he could. “That would be most helpful, miss. My
name is Wiggins, and I work in Holland Park.”
“My name is Charlotte Brimmer.” She smiled shyly.
“Would you have time for a cup of tea, Miss Brimmer?”
he asked politely. “I’m just a footman, but I really think I
can help you. There’s a Lyons Tea Shop just up the road,
and that’s a right respectable place. They do a nice cuppa
as well.”
She hesitated for a brief moment and he thought he’d
as if any of them are going to notice how long I’ve been
gone, not with the police coming around this morning.”
“You understand I had no choice but to ask the Home Office
for help in this matter,” John Brandon said as he ushered the
two policemen into his office. “I hope that, as police officers, you’ll do your best to find the truth.”
“Of course we’ll do our best,” Witherspoon assured
him. Brandon was a short, balding man with a circle of
thick gray hair around his skull, a long nose, thin lips, and
sharp blue eyes.
“Good. It’s imperative the police put their resentments
aside and get to the truth of this matter.” Brandon sat down
behind his mahogany desk and gestured for them to sit down.
“I assure you, sir, I’ve no resentments whatsoever,”
Witherspoon said as he took one of the two empty chairs
and Barnes took the other one. “Our concern is the same as
yours—finding the truth in this matter as quickly as possible.”
“Good, then let’s get on with this, sir.” He stared at them
expectantly.
“Uh, yes, of course.” The inspector racked his brain for
a useful question, but of course his mind refused to supply
him with one.
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131
“Was Mr. Muran the sole beneficiary?” Barnes asked
softly.
Brandon raised his eyebrows, surprised that the constable had asked a question. “No, there were a number of people and charities that benefited from her death. Mr. Muran was her main beneficiary, but she left bequests to her
cousins, her servants, and several of her factory employees. She also left funds for the establishment of a legal defense fund for the London Women’s Sufferage Union. Of course, now that Mr. Merri
man has risen from the dead”—
he grinned at his own joke—“Mr. Muran won’t get anything except a reasonable allowance.”
“You mean Mr. Merriman inherits everything?” Witherspoon asked. This could put things in a very different light altogether.
“Correct.” Brandon leaned back in his chair. “There was
a rumor going about that Mrs. Muran had bought her
brother’s share of their joint estate, but that wasn’t true.
She loaned him some money so he could travel, but she
never bought him out of his birthright.”
“But everyone thought she had?” Barnes pressed. That
was the gossip he’d heard, and he wanted to see how widespread it had become.
“I know, Caroline started the rumor deliberately. She
wanted people to think that Russell was virtually destitute.”
“But why?” Witherspoon leaned forward slightly.
“She thought it would keep a certain element from taking
advantage of him.” Brandon pursed his lips in disapproval.
“Specifically, she hoped that people would stop loaning him
money to drink and gamble with if they thought he had no
prospects. She was trying to protect him. She was like that,
always thinking of others. Even the well-being of her workers was important to her. Do you know, she was planning on spending virtually all the company’s cash to buy decent
housing for her employees.”
“We heard she might have been planning on buying another factory.” Witherspoon watched the solicitor, trying to 132
Emily Brightwell
gauge from the man’s face if this information was a surprise.
But Brandon’s expression didn’t change. “She had
thought about doing that as well,” he replied. “She was
very concerned with unemployment.”
“There was enough capital to do both?” Barnes asked.
Brandon shook his head. “Not really. Caroline could
have done both if she’d been willing to take a loan, but she
was opposed to doing that. She didn’t like banks. I think
she’d made up her mind to spend the money on her workers’ housing. She was certainly leaning that way the day she died.”
“You saw her that day?” Witherspoon’s head began to
hurt. He’d been on the case for less than fourteen hours and
it had already gotten complicated.
“Yes. I brought her the estimates for both the purchase
of the properties and the cost of renovations.”